


Worship Thy Gods and They Shalt Bless Thee

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Ancient Greece, Blow Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-27
Updated: 2013-11-27
Packaged: 2018-01-02 19:58:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1060981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on the kink meme. Dionysus!Grantaire and worshipper!Enjolras. Enjolras is a devoted worshipper of the Gods until Dionysus appears to him, and he is disappointed. Dionysus, who for some reason insists Enjolras calls him Grantaire, makes an effort to win his gaze.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worship Thy Gods and They Shalt Bless Thee

Enjolras had always been a devoted worshipper of the Gods. Of course he had; what other route was there? The Gods blessed his family, allowed them wealth, allowed the crop of the olive groves they owned to prosper, blessed the dairies they owned with extensive production.

Enjolras was well-educated, comfortable living in the manor his family and another shared, raised around horses, raised to read and vociferate and debate, raised to visit the local colleges and philosophize, raised to enjoy dramatics and art and literature.

Enjolras was raised drinking wine.

His father worked as a hoplite, his mother created beautiful weaving work - not because she had to, but because she could occupy herself with such things, and she enjoyed the work. She spoke of Athena and Arachne if anyone dared question her craft, and for her ability, no one did so.

It was to Athena that one of the local temples was devoted to. They possessed two large temples, expertly crafted of charming marble and sculpture, painted carefully, put together expertly. Around Athena's temple were olive trees, serving to keep it separate from the general streets.

The other was to Dionysus. It was a smaller temple than hers, for they had little space for large buildings in such a mountainous area, and yet it was as well-traversed. Of course, the people worshipped Gods other than these two, but these two were at the forefront.

Pallas Athena, for her wisdom, her craft, her strength and strategy and skill, and Dionysus, for his theatre, his wine, his joy, his ecstasy and his culture. They were a city of culture, Enjolras knew, and he was lucky to have been born here, to a comfortably wealthy family, to education.

Enjolras believed in the liberation of the poor as much as the rich, but to voice such thoughts was to risk being thrown onto the street, or worse, brought before the elders of their community - old men in comfortable robes with thick, grey beards and chapped lips, and too much want for red wine and young women and young men alike.

So Enjolras worshipped. He prayed not for himself, but for the people around him, gave alms as he could, educated the children on the streets and in the square (and they adored Enjolras, though he could not tell you why), and tried to be a good man.

He prayed to Athena to keep these people safe, to allow them wisdom and inspiration in the arts they subscribed to, prayed to her for no war to come and harm them, and prayed that she would bless them with strength. To Dionysus, he prayed that would have a plentiful harvest, so that each of them could eat his fill, and he prayed that most of all, they would be happy.

He knelt in a grove of olives, out of the way of the main city, and he bowed his head, comfortable on his knees, with his bare skin pressing against the dirt, his hands spread out on the dusted surface. The olive trees were thick and leafy, but they were not trees made for shade, and light flickered in between their branches and dappled the ground in charming yellows and oranges.

Enjolras liked it here: the space filled him with an indescribable sense of peace, of calm, and here he was safe to murmur his prayer under his breath with no worry of interruption. His family insisted it made no difference, but Enjolras had always preferred to say his prayers aloud - he wanted for the Gods to  _hear_  his voice, not merely know his plight.

"Plight?  _Plight_? You think you have yourself a plight? Ha. You are a young boy with a tendency for dramatics: you bear no plight." Enjolras' head snapped up from where he'd fixed his gaze upon the ground to see a man before him.

This man did not wear the tunic Enjolras did for moving about the groves - he bore thick, purple robes the colour of thick wine, kept in place at his shoulder with a golden broach in the shape of the sun. 

"What did you say to me?" Enjolras stood, lips curling into a snarl as he shook the dust from his knees, glaring. 

"You have no plight." The man repeated, and he grinned at Enjolras in a way that made the blond feel like the sacrificial lamb before the altar. "Oh, what charming simile." The man purred, and he slipped forwards, robes flowing around him. "I wouldn't mind you naked of your wool and shivering on an altar for me."

Enjolras clenched his hands into fists. "You speak too freely! I am  _not-_ "

"You are mine." And then the man was across the little clearing, his hand heavy on Enjolras' chin, grasping tightly at his jaw and serving to jaw a choked noise from him. Enjolras noted now that the man was a good head taller than he, built with heavier muscle, and sweat (but no, it wasn't sweat - oil, perhaps?) shined on his bare left shoulder and his neck. 

Enjolras was struck with his countenance, and his lips parted as he looked upon the other's face. He should not have been beautiful, with his chapped lips and dark lids, marked strongly with the shadows of little sleep, and yet Enjolras had never looked upon a being so glorious in his life.

This being was radiant, his eyes a deep, olive green, and as he looked at Enjolras' face, the blond felt his knees weaken, but he kept his place standing. To do elsewise would be an embarrassment. 

"I am not yours." He managed to choke out, but when he put a hand up to grab at the man's wrist, the brunet just caught it, holding it tightly and interlinking their fingers. Enjolras flushed a bright red.

"You are mine." He repeated, shaking his head slightly to bring a thick fringe out of his eyes. His hair was heavy, curly and black-brown around his head. "For I am your God."

" _What_?"

"You call me Dionysus, do you not? You pray to me loyally, pray for the happiness of the people, pray for their good harvest, for their good spirits?" And the man grinned. "And you, my sweet fellow, are a beauty." 

"Take your hands off me." Enjolras growled, and he stumbled back. The man took his hands away, spreading them flat and holding them at height with his head in a calming motion. "You are  _not_  a God."

"Oh, but I am."

"And yet your broach is the sun." He laughed, a merry sound. 

"So it is. My brother is a man of great humours, it would seem: he insists upon ridiculous gifts and bad jokes. You may call me Grantaire."

"May I?" Enjolras repeated, his tone sharp, but the brunet before him did not falter in his smile. 

"Indeed, Enjolras, you may. They call me many things, for I am wild and untamed, with a hundred epithets, but I like Grantaire."

"You are a loon." Grantaire waved his hand, producing a carafe of wine and two cups with which to drink it, and Enjolras stared at the pot pieces where they hovered between them in the air. "Dear Gods above." He whispered, and he dropped to his knees again.

Grantaire groaned.

"Come, mortal, off your knees unless you're to put your mouth to work. I want your conversation, not your grovelling form." And Enjolras scrambled back up again, his cheeks flushed a telling scarlet.

"I didn't expect a God to be so crass." He muttered.

"God of wine and cocks and he complains I'm crass." Grantaire said in a deadpan fashion, shaking his head in the direction of some imaginary audience, and Enjolras glared at him.

"I am not yours." He said, returning to their previous argument, and Grantaire  _pouted_ , as Gavroche the street urchin did if Enjolras left early - a boy of eight, and Grantaire for a moment shared his countenance.

"Then why worship me?"

"I-I-" And this wasn't correct. Enjolras knew no mortal should spurn a God in this fashion, but why should he play to this creature's whims when he was as base as any man in the city? "I expected more."

"More? More? What, you wanted me to manage to get your  _cock_  wet for you? Even I cannot work such miracles." Enjolras' cheeks were scarlet as he spat, "I have no want for women."

"No, I know that." Grantaire took a sneaking step forwards, grinning at the other man. "I like you, Enjolras: I've spent some time looking upon you. I see your fantasies when you touch yourself in the dead of night, spread so  _charmingly_ on that mattress of yours with your hand between your legs-"

"Be  _silent_." Grantaire blinked at him owlishly, stopping short out of surprise more than obedience. A mortal had never ordered him like this before. Enjolras huffed a sigh, glaring at the brunet, looking him up and down.

Then, he turned on his heel, and began to walk away. "Where are you going?"

"Home to my bed! The light is fading."

"I can fix that!" Enjolras did offered no reply nor retort, and Grantaire stared after him, flummoxed.

And then, he beamed. What an interesting creature. 

\---

"I don't agree!" Courfeyrac said good-naturedly, pouring water from a jug into cups for each of them where they were settled around a table. Combeferre and and Enjolras regarded him with interest. “I believe if we were to create some school of thought, allow the young to read and to discuss philosophy, perhaps create more regular classes in the square...”

“You would be arrested for creating a disturbance.”

“Not a disturbance!” Courfeyrac said, making a face. “It's no different that performing music in the square, is it not? And the Gods would no doubt be  _delighted_ -”

“Oh, speak not of the Gods.” Enjolras muttered in bad-temper, and Courfeyrac glanced at him with a baffled gaze before regaining his thought.

“But Bahorel would no doubt assist us! And your friend, the other Hippocratic follower, what is his name?”

“His name is Joly, Courfeyrac, and I sincerely doubt he would come and be involved in this folly.” Combeferre said. “Not in the  _square_. Now, if we were to find these people in the grove, or organize something more out of the way, it would be easier to pass off as acceptable.”

Enjolras nodded his agreement, bringing his cup to his lips and sipping at it. Then, he spat, wine dribbling from his lips and spattering across the table.

“What in Zeus' name are you doing!?” Combeferre exclaimed, standing up straight and fixing Enjolras with a glare.

“This is wine.”

“What?” Enjolras held out his cup, and both Courfeyrac and Combeferre peered into it.

“But how...?” Enjolras looked around the room, seeing not a sign of the God. His lip twitched, and he moved over to the window, dumping the wine out. He heard a faint chuckle, but still saw no one, and he was frowning as he moved back to his seat.

\---

It was an accident he was saved from next. Enjolras had been with Feuilly and Bahorel, down by the river to bathe and to talk. Feuilly worked in a granary, Bahorel in a storehouse, and the two were good friends. Enjolras was glad to spend time with them when he could, and swimming in the river was always a good way to laugh with them, as Bahorel tried to catch small fish with his bare hands and Feuilly teased him for it.

A bough had broken above the flow of the water, had fallen and thoroughly pinned Enjolras beneath the water, with a sharp blow to his shoulder causing him pain as the branches made it difficult for him to extricate himself and move to the surface to breathe.

And then there were strong, calloused hands on him, pulling him up and out of the water, and a muscled form was straddling his own on the bank, thick, dark hair soaked with water and dripping. “I didn't need your help.”

“I wanted to help.” Grantaire had purred, purple fabric clinging to Enjolras' body from this position as much as it did the God's own, and Enjolras shoved him, drawing a throaty laugh from him. He smelt of wine and olive oil and some heady scent that made Enjolras think of touching his own cock in bed at night, and Grantaire winked before he disappeared before Enjolras' eyes, leaving him shivering and missing the God's warm weight atop him.

“Hey! Hey, are you alright? You got from the water?”

“I'm fine, Feuilly, don't worry so.”

“Your forehead is bleeding, come, come here-”

\---

It went on in that vein for some time. It was water into wine, or roses would bloom at Enjolras' windowsill, or nuts, flowers and fruits would come into growth at his presence, or people would became overtly flirtatious in the baths.

Enjolras was not amused.

“I have never been spurned by a mortal before.” Grantaire purred one evening, hanging from a tree in the grove, where Enjolras had elected to take a walk. They had had a dozen of these encounters, two dozen, even, where Grantaire would flit around Enjolras like some teasing nymph, offering jibes and jokes, and Enjolras would ignore him. It had become a plain enough routine, and the blond found comfort in it. 

“You disappointed this mortal.”

“You have disappointed me!” Grantaire retorted, and as he shifted, his robe fell, curling around his thigh and revealing tanned lower legs riddled with ink and paint. “I expected your worship, your devotion, and yet with my presence, I lost all of your love!”

“You are too crass to be of Olympus.” Grantaire snorted, dropping to the ground and sliding forwards, his hand on Enjolras' hip as he leaned closer.

“You are too chaste to be of Earth.” He returned easily, and Enjolras swallowed at the sudden close quarters. It was true that he'd considered Dionysus more in past weeks, that it had been those green eyes he'd focused on when lying in his bed at night, and he attempted to shift back slightly.

“When I find a wife, I will-”

“Why find a wife? Why not be mine?” Grantaire asked, and Enjolras realized now that he had grown a wild stubble on his cheeks: the beginnings of a dark beard.

“I have responsibilities.” Enjolras whispered, because it was true, and Grantaire hummed, leaning to nip at his jaw and his neck.

“I could help with those.” Enjolras tipped his head back, closing his eyes as he let Grantaire bite at the skin he bared. He wanted this. The game with the God was enjoyable, droll, but  _this_ -

“Gods.” Enjolras whispered.

“God: just me. Only me.” Grantaire growled, and it was possessive, possessive enough that Enjolras felt like he was barely a toy; somehow that idea was intoxicating, arousing, rather than insulting. 

“Dio-”

“Grantaire.”

“Grantaire, I- I'm- fuck-” Grantaire pulled back, unpinning the broach at his shoulder and sending purple fabric, masses of it, to the ground, which he rapidly spread out atop the dusty ground.

“Lay with me.” He requested, and Enjolras glanced over his now naked body, his mouth dry.

“I don't know how.”

“I'll show you.”

“You're not a teacher.”

“I'm a teacher of some things.” And then his mouth was on Enjolras', his lips hot, his mouth wet as he deepened the kiss and their tongues slid against each other's, and Enjolras let out a soft cry.

“Teach me, teach me to- suck you-” Enjolras managed to strangle out as Grantaire unbuckled his tunic, throwing the leather aside and leaving Enjolras as naked as he was, thinner, less muscled, but no less athletic.

“Come, come, I  _need_  that mouth of yours-” And Enjolras wanted to worship, he truly did, wanted to please, but moreover, he  _wanted_  Grantaire, wanted the other man atop him, wanted to fuck him, be fucked, to  _feel_.

Enjolras was  _filled_  with passion, his skin feeling like it was on fire as he dropped to his knees on the mauve spread of the other's cloth, and he couldn't help but stare at the swell between Grantaire's legs. He let out a choked sound, staring with wide eyes. 

Grantaire chuckled, and then he grabbed Enjolras by the hair, pulling the boy atop him to take his mouth in a quick kiss, biting at his lips and drawing loud whimpers from the back of his throat. He flipped them, pinning Enjolras beneath him, to purr, "Plenty of time for that, you darling mortal. You'll suck me, but not today." 

And then he was kissing down Enjolras' body, from his collarbone down his sternum, over his navel, and everything felt sensitive, tingling under Grantaire's lips. Enjolras arched, letting out desperate noises as he fisted his hands in the purple sheet, and Grantaire laughed.

"I will not be your slave." Enjolras managed to choke out, and Grantaire nipped at his thigh.

"No." He agreed.

"I will retain my freedom and my liberties."

"Of course." Grantaire said sagely, licking a stripe over the shaft of Enjolras' cock and making him mewl. 

"Will I die a mortal man?"

"Shan't let you." Enjolras' next question was stopped short by the dip of Grantaire's head, thoroughly enveloping the blond's cock in his mouth, taking him to the very root, and Enjolras almost screamed. He suffered a gasp, tightening his hands in the purple cloth beneath them as he froze. 

He whined under his breath, arching and letting out choked noises, and Gods, he just kept moving his damn mouth, swirling his tongue over Enjolras' head before swallowing down the shaft again, and Enjolras was left needy.

He came in an embarrassing amount of time, and the God pulled back, come clinging to his lip - and fuck, this was a  _God_  that had just laid his mouth on Enjolras' member, and the blond whimpered as he met the other's eyes. "Mine." Grantaire murmured, and Enjolras nodded, nodded, couldn't do anything else. 

"You are divine."

"The definition of the word." Grantaire said, in obvious accord, an amused smile pulling at his lips, and Enjolras opened and closed his mouth, embarrassed.

"Of course." He mumbled, trying to hide his hot cheeks, but Grantaire dipped forwards, hands either side of the other's torso as he leaned to kiss him again. Their embrace was lazy, languid, slow with their tongues, lips, mouths against each other's, and it was warm and it was comfortable.

Grantaire would pull away only to let Enjolras breathe, and then his mouth would return, and Enjolras found it fascinating, pressing close for more of the attention, for more of those wine-soaked lips and laugh-filled mouth. 

"Will you share my bed at night?" And Grantaire laughed. 

"Would your family not have something to say?"

"And why should they see you there?" Grantaire leaned, nipping at Enjolras' neck before purring against his ear.

"If you will perform your acts of self-sodomy with my visible spectation, I would be charmed to." Enjolras' lip quivered. 

"You would watch?"

"And be in ecstasy." Grantaire said, and Enjolras clasped at him, pulling him close and digging his nails into the muscle of the God's shoulder.

"Yes.  _Yes_." And Grantaire laughed, laughed until Enjolras muted his amusement with his own lips on Dionysus'. 


End file.
